


Spent Cigarettes

by mellish



Category: Death Note
Genre: Canonical Alternate Universe, Childhood, Chocolate, Deathfic, Gen, Male Friendship, Memories, Minor Character Death, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-21
Updated: 2008-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series AU where Mello survives; the rest of canon still follows. Mello makes a visit, and thinks about several maybe's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spent Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> For week #34 - Anniversary over at dn_contest on lj.

Sometimes he wonders now how he never noticed that Matt always knew what kind of chocolate he liked, and always had one ready on hand, in his back pocket or in a little plastic bag, or tucked into his vest; it was like those things came out of thin air when he was around. Matt always knew if Mello needed a big dark bar, or Cadbury with nuts, or something cheap like a KitKat, and Mello would always just take the goddamn offering without wondering _how_ Matt had known, or why. He thinks he didn’t say thank you every time, either. He probably did so only when he could be bothered, which wasn’t very often.

Sometimes he thinks Matt knew because he had really good observational skills. Back at the Whammy House he’d always be playing with his GameBoy in the back of the room, pretending to be totally engrossed in how many dots Pacman could gobble, when secretly he’d be studying everyone around him: listening to their secrets, watching how they moved. Matt was good at being inconspicuous and staying out of the way, and that was why Mello didn’t think they’d have a problem when he asked Matt to keep an eye on that Misa girl – but then again he was never one for foresight, and that was off-topic, anyway.

Or maybe Matt knew because Mello wasn’t so hard to read, after all. L and Near had said as much. It was too easy to read his expression, or to understand what he was feeling from the way he spoke, the way he spat, the way he stomped.

Maybe Matt hadn’t known; maybe it was just coincidence that whatever chocolate Mello felt like he needed, it would happen to be the one Matt had at the moment.

 _Or maybe he knew because he was your friend, followed you everywhere, did every stupid thing you told him to do_ – but they weren’t friends. The children from the Whammy House had learned from an early age that it was dangerous to make friends. Connections, of course, were an entirely different matter. Befriending a person was very different from tapping into them and asking them to help you out with something; everyone had different skills, and naturally it was all right to use those skills to one’s advantage, if the people were kind – or stupid – enough to let you. Mello isn’t sure what he’d call people like that, but it certainly wouldn’t be _friends_.

He tries to remember if there was ever a time when he offered Matt something in return. Like maybe a new videogame cartridge, or a pack of cigarettes. Something, anything. All he remembers is asking. All he remembers is that Matt would never say _yes_ exactly, but that was the answer anyway, because he’d always show up at the appointed time, at the appointed place, muttering something about _this being rather inconvenient_ while shooting people on his newest handheld. They had gone past favors straight into suicide missions, and somehow it hadn’t seemed strange to them. Like it had all been inevitable. A part of Kira’s plans.

That didn’t mean he expected those nights in dingy apartments with flickering light bulbs and rickety single-beds; they’d take turns on the floor when it was too small, otherwise they’d stay on the opposite ends, too exhausted from the day’s work to care much. Sometimes Matt would pull up the windows and lean outside smoking, trying not to bother Mello too much with the habit. (When they had first tried cigarettes back at the Whammy’s House, with a bunch of other kids desperate to be cool, Mello had had a violent coughing spell and they had no choice but to take him to Roger, who promptly chucked the cigarettes into the rubbish and gave them a long lecture about lung cancer. Mello only found out that Matt had gotten addicted after he left. He never asked why.)

“It’s okay, Matt, I’ve gotten used to it.” Being around the mafia did that to him; if the skinny boy with a face like a girl’s had a coughing fit every time someone lighted up, they would have never let him join their ranks, much less listen to him. He even smoked himself, sometimes, just for show. “You don’t need to do that. And someone might see you.”

“But you don’t like it,” Matt shot back, breathing out white smoke. “And anyway, it would stink up the room.” If he was being considerate, he was also being annoying, but Mello didn’t want to waste any effort contesting with him in that regard. So he shrugged and kept eating away at his Mars bar (he’d given up on finer chocolate, because they’d needed to spend all their resources on more important things), planning for the next step in their mission, ignoring how he had a sudden desperate urge to tell Matt to take off his stupid goggles because they were _indoors_.

He never said it. He’d already remarked enough about Matt’s uncoordinated clothes and his weird taste for stripes, to which Matt would always reply, “To each his own, dude. I think I’d die wearing all that leather, and I know you sure as fuck don’t pray the rosary.” They didn’t seem very important things to bicker about, but rather than listening to the Kira worship on the radio, or worse, watching it on the TV which had no cable, defending his wardrobe seemed more worthwhile. Now that he thinks about it, they wasted a lot of time debating about stupid things like that.

The goggles always stayed on. Sometimes he has a hard time remembering the color of Matt’s eyes. It’s probably something really plain, like brown.

He makes a mental note to ask him about it later, or if he can he’ll take a good look so that he won’t forget. He has to buy cigarettes, too, and if they have some in the convenience store he’ll buy one of those cartridges with the fifty-games-in-one, old school stuff like Super Mario and Tetris. Matt had been playing a lot of those in the weeks leading up to the kidnapping, on his old GameBoy Color, saying the he was sick of the newer handhelds. He sat jiggling his leg nervously and muttering to himself not to forget that a mushroom was going to come barrelling at him the moment he finished that leap; or he would hiss in frustration when an L-block descended on his carefully made up rows and _ruined everything_.

Mello asked if he could play once. He didn’t last thirty minutes at either game. To his credit, Matt didn’t laugh at him. He just grinned and said it took some getting used to, a little bit of memorization and even a bit of luck. “This is stupid,” Mello replied. He had meant it, too.

Maybe that was why things had gotten out of hand? Because real life missions weren’t like game missions – there was no trick to it, no ‘practice makes perfect’. They had to go out there and get their hands dirty and risk everything, and when things hit a dead end there was no way to start from scratch. They had gotten used to the danger and they had memorized all their plans, but Mello had never been lucky; he should have known things were going to screw up so badly they’d never be allowed to forget it. He still has the burns all over his back to prove it, but sometimes he thinks they’re worth it, if that bitch newscaster is dead and L (however grudgingly he admits it) is back. In a way, they succeeded, and that’s what matters to him right now.

He doesn’t talk to Matt often but he thinks maybe that’s what matters most to him too. (Not like they have any choice, really. Growing up in the Whammy House takes away a lot of choices.)

He takes off his helmet and walks into the convenience store and picks out a pack of cigarettes that he thinks Matt will appreciate, and a packet of M&Ms for himself. He can afford fancier stuff now, but he finds himself craving cheap stuff more often. The lady behind the counter tries very hard not to stare at the scar cutting across his face, and he makes it more difficult for her by leaning over and asking, “You got any videogames?”

“Over there.” She points. “Next to the manga.”

He goes off to look at it without saying thanks. It’s not because of the scar, not really – he knows it draws attention, knows that if he were other people he’d probably stare, too. What he hates is how other people always try to be discreet about it. He _knows_ it’s there, he isn’t stupid, and if they want to ask they _can_ , it’s not like he can hide it anyway. Maybe it was because of the goggles, but he doesn’t remember Matt ever staring at it. When they first met up, after Mello had contacted him, Matt had tilted his head a bit and said, “I see you’re still as reckless as ever.” And that was it, the only conversation they ever had about the scar, although he probably wouldn’t have minded telling how he got it, if Matt had asked. He thinks it might have been nice to describe that pain to someone who would understand – how he couldn’t go to a proper hospital, how he’d suffered the pain for what seemed like endless nights, laughing whenever the hurt got too bad because _fuck Kira, he still didn’t know Mello’s name, he hadn’t won, hahaHA_.

He picks out one of those fifty-in-one games, still in its glittery cardboard box. It’s old, and it’s on sale. The lady tries to smile at him as she hands him his purchases, and he thinks about gratitude and mutters a grudging “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she chirps back. The people in this country are far too polite. He jams on his helmet and speeds away, thinking about the things he’ll say. He hates planning, actually. Life would be a lot easier if things just fell into place, but that’s never happened to him; he’s always had to shove events around to get anywhere.

Maybe he’ll start with their names. Their names are their lives, after all. It was a stupid thing to do, young stupid Mello and younger stupid Matt, elbows touching as they lay on their backs in the darkness, eating away at L’s secret stash of candy. “I’ll tell you a secret,” Mello had said. (He started it. He always did.) “I’ll tell you a secret if you tell me a secret.”

Matt’s voice had come to him over the crunching of nougats in the dark – L had some pretty fancy sweets in his stash. “But I don’t have any secrets.”

Mello had considered this. A lot of the kids at the Whammy House didn’t have any mysteries because they didn’t have any histories – either they didn’t remember clearly, or it wasn’t important anyway. Without thinking, he had said, “Tell me your name.” And Matt, after a short pause to crunch another bit of nougat, had done so. Mello almost wished he hadn’t asked, but he had to keep his end of the bargain, even if he knew they were doing something wrong and probably dumb. He spoke his own name aloud, almost coloring the emptiness before them. And that was it. They sat in the dark with each other’s names ringing in their ears, and even if Kira hadn’t existed then and names weren’t the best defense against death, they had compromised their identities and positions as potential Ls.

Maybe that was why they always knew they’d never quite get rid of each other. He laughs at this idea, how it sounds so fake and dramatic, and he steps on the gas because he’s going to be late. Matt’s patient but Mello’s trying to make up for things today. _Of all goddamned days_. Maybe he’ll start with how it’s been exactly a year, and Matt might not believe him but Mello has grown up a little since then, and he’s finally old enough to say he’s sorry, that he knows things like scars and burns don’t cut a good old-fashioned apology.

He stops the engine and brings his bike to a screeching halt. Then he steps off it and walks over to where he knows Matt is waiting. Matt didn’t exactly say yes, but that was always the answer, and today is no different – he’s at the appointed place, at the appointed time. Quiet, under the trees. Mello feels his mouth going dry as he stops before him, all his earlier confidence lost. They aren’t friends, and he’s never been good at planning, and there is no way to go about this without sounding really stupid, so he decides to just get it over with. He tosses the plastic bag with the cigarettes and the videogame cartridge at Matt, and he says, as lightly as possible, “I got you this.” _These_. He feels too awkward to correct himself. He shifts from one foot to the other. Then, in a tounge-twisted rush because he doesn’t know how to _do_ this:

“I’m sorry.” _Shit_. “I’m sorry, Matt.” _Mail. Mail Jeevas_. “I’m sorry.”

For saying the games were stupid and for harping on his fashion sense. For calling him up when they were supposed to have lost all contact already; for telling him his name, for never closing this distance across those sagging beds and saying, _I appreciate it, mate_. (He did, didn’t he? Still does. Still thinks maybe some of the sacrifice was worth it, still wonders if Matt would think the same, but now he’ll never know.) For leaving the Whammy House without warning like some idiot throwing a tantrum. (Maybe if he’d worked with Near from the start, this wouldn’t have happened.) For not being able to save him. For this grave, even. Matt probably didn’t want to be buried in some foreign country, but there wasn’t much Mello could do without an identity and any papers to prove he had a right to the body, which had been riddled with countless bullets, wrapped in black plastic in the police station, when Mello finally forced himself to walk again, despite the pain from the burns.

He traces the name on the ivory tombstone with his finger, wondering about everything, about how it turned out this way, why.

He sits there for a long, long time. Smokes a cigarette and fishes out the old GameBoy from his pocket, the one Matt had left in their last hotel room. Mello had acted really weird when the concierge handed it to him, holding the thing trembling in his hands, thinking that he certainly wasn’t going to cry, that would be uncharacteristic of him. He puts the cartridge in and he plays tetris for all of forty-five minutes, and then the screen fills up and it’s game over. He turns the thing off and leans his head back, exhaling white smoke into the sky. Then he opens his packet of M&Ms and eats one piece at a time, slowly, thoughtfully.

“They were blue, weren’t they?”

It’s not really a question; he remembers now. He remembers clearly.

He puts a hand over his own eyes and tries too hard to smile.

 _“And this is all that's left  
The empty bottles, spent cigarettes  
So pack a change of clothes, because it's time to move on.”  
~ Photobooth, Death Cab for Cutie_


End file.
